


May Your Days be Merry and Bright

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 19:55:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8909899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: Beacon Hills hasn’t snowed in all the years Scott’s lived there, until tonight. He’s not angry the snow’s contributing to a traffic hazard, because it means he can suggest Stiles stay the night without it seeming out of place.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [motherofangst](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=motherofangst).



Beacon Hills hasn’t snowed in all the years Scott’s lived there, until tonight. There are white, wet flakes drifting down from on high, the roads rendered slick-black and slippery. By morning, the earth will be blanketed in crisp clarity and he can’t lie about it, he’s kind of excited to see it in person. He was saying only a week or two ago how he wished it would happen, just once. 

He’s also not angry the snow’s contributing to a traffic hazard, because it means he can suggest Stiles stay the night without it seeming out of place. 

A year ago, it wouldn’t have seemed out of place regardless. It’d be friends being friendly. The last few weeks, it’d have an air of _suggestion_. Distinct spider-parlor-fly connotations.

They’ve been dancing around each other; a weirdly intense tango full of turning cortes. One minute, Stiles will be staring at him, all heat. The next he’ll be blustering away, faking a laugh, saying something mildly insulting. Scott will slide his fingers over Stiles’ arm, want to hook them around his wrist, but will startle and step away. 

They’re alone at Scott’s house, Melissa visiting Scott’s aunt two towns away, the Sheriff on call. It’s three days until Christmas and the only light in the room comes from the Christmas tree in the corner, casting everything into a multi-colored glow.

Stiles is warm-eyed and loose from too much bourbon in his eggnog. He’s not drunk, tipsy at worst, but he’s soft in a way he usually doesn’t allow himself. He doesn’t bat an eyelid when Scott tells him he’s not letting him go out into the harsh winter night, just sprawls deeper into the couch.

“No complaints here,” he says. “I ain’t shifting, Scotty.” It’s cute how the New York articulation his mom graced him with comes out in times like this. He says, “Scaahtty,” all long-voweled and strung-out. As far as Scott’s aware, Stiles hasn’t ever even stepped a mile toward the east coast. “Plus, tomorrow, we can have a snowball fight.”

“That’s a surprisingly good idea,” Scott says, faking shock and awe. 

Scott’s still harboring all his old inhibitions, alcohol is a lost cause, but he’s in tune with ambiance and atmosphere 99% of the time, so he slides down on his side of the couch and enjoys the quiet.

Scott allows his hand to wander and starts tracing shapes onto Stiles’ denim-clad knee.

“You ever think about when we used to sneak into the attic and raid my dad’s poorly concealed porn stash?” Stiles asks, suddenly.

“That happened once, we got caught, and I literally almost died of embarrassment when I panicked into an asthma attack.”

Stiles smiles, sticky slow and nostalgic. “Yeah. Was exciting, though, right?”

Scott reminisces, remembers how his heart had been racing over seeing Stiles’ dick more than the glossy printed 90s girls. With 20/20 hindsight, that should’ve been a hint. It weirdly wasn’t. He’s been convincing himself this is something new for weeks now.

“It was… eventful,” Scott admits, mirroring Stiles’ smile, realizing he’s drawing concentric circles.

Stiles winks at him, licks at his lower lip. His gaze is deep, assessing. Not like he’s figuring out a puzzle. More like he’s constructing one. Trying to think up cryptic clues and challenging proposals.

“You know, if we do this, things can’t go back to the way they were before.”

“Is that supposed to be a warning or a promise?”

Stiles gives a lazy, half-hearted shrug. “Neither. Both.”  


"All right,” Scott says, mild, because he knows it drives Stiles crazy. Sure enough, Stiles narrows his eyes at him, ducks his head forward.

“You ready to risk it all?”

“I think if you’re asking me, we’re already past the point of no return.”

Stiles exhales slowly, leans far into Scott’s space. He’s long limbs and coiled muscle and very, very sure of himself. It’s one of those Stiles things, how he can go from shaky to rock steady in a minute flat. Scott’s always wondered if one of those states is a lie. Or maybe agonizing over consequences in the beginning means that he slips into a false state of calm once he’s made a decision; if it’s all going to hell, may as well arrive in style.

Scott’s too surprised and gratified that this is finally happening to care about how foolish he must sound moaning into the first kiss. He’s had a fixation with Stiles’ lips for a long time and Stiles knows what he’s doing. He’s firm without being aggressive, a little bit sweet, a little dirty. He’s bourbon burn against Scott’s tongue. He sucks at Scott’s lower lip and that’s when Scott knows he needs to stop thinking so much and just feel. Scott winds his hand into Stiles’ hair and gently pulls him where he wants him, uses his body weight to pin him against the back of the couch. 

Stiles edges away for a second and Scott’s about to apologize, but hazy eyes meet his and then Stiles is shucking off his sweater, his shirt, pawing at Scott’s to divest him of his. Soon they’re skin to skin, and Scott had no idea it would feel like this, it never even occurred to him. The sensations of having Stiles so close are overwhelming. He can hear Stiles’ heartbeat, faster than familiar. Can smell his excitement and arousal. Can _taste_ his joy. 

It doesn’t take long for them to get completely naked. Neither of them complain about the cold. They’re too busy learning how to make each other whimper, too intent on touching every new inch of each other’s bodies. 

Scott drags his hand along Stiles’ cock from root to tip, loving Stiles’ short, sharp breaths. There’s something so perfect about the way Stiles bucks up into his hand, pushy and dominant, telling him to slide faster and harder, then ten seconds later how he’ll insist on doing the same for Scott. The energy between them is fizzing, lit up like the lights nearby. 

They arrange themselves so that they can wrap their hands around each other simultaneously, Stiles slicking his hand with a long swipe of his tongue. Scott almost comes then and there, from Stiles’ expression alone, but he pinches the base of his cock, bites at his own lip, wills himself to calm down a little. When Stiles strokes them in tandem, though, it doesn’t take long before he’s rocking into the movement with small grunts and erratic flexes of his hips.

His hold on Stiles’ shoulder is slippery at best, and Scott’s too caught up at looking at the pink in the hollows of his cheeks, the reflection of light against his wet lips, the focus and determination of his gaze, to care much to correct it.

There’s nothing elegant about the way they’re canting into each other, Scott can’t say they’re using any finesse, but this is the most fun he’s had in over a year and to be able to share this with Stiles makes it all the more special. Stiles seems to have an extra sense in knowing how to make Scott lose his mind. Kisses him when he needs it, distracts him when it gets too much, uses his strong, long fingers to stroke him again, and again, and again. 

“Stiles,” Scott warns.

“You ready?” Stiles asks back, deep and breathy.

Scott nods. He grasps onto Stiles’ hips with both hands and rides out the shockwaves, tipping his forehead onto Stiles’ shoulder, kissing into the soft tender skin of his clavicle. Stiles comes a moment later, grunting out his release.

Scott’s still for a long while, rubbing his thumb against Stiles’ spine, counting his slowing-down breaths. He laughs when Stiles grimaces down at the mess of them. 

“We’ll wake up extra early. Clean this up before snowball annihilation.”

They trip up the stairs eventually, collapse onto Scott’s bed. Stiles makes a low noise in the back of his throat; a happy hum rather than a moan. Moonlight streams into the room, bright, and Scott watches snowflakes fall outside, full of wonder.

“The snow’s incredible, isn’t it? Literally and figuratively.”

“It was me.”

Scott frowns, half turns. “What do you mean?”

“A couple of weeks ago you joked about having to move cross-country to see the snow, so I brought it to you.” Stiles wriggles his fingers. “With the power of my mind. And approximately seven thousand words of Gaelic.”

Scott glances at Stiles out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t want him to know he’s impressed. “Wasn’t that dangerous? Isn’t it wrong to mess with the laws of nature? Aren’t there consequences?”

“I asked Alan and he said it should be okay, as long as I made some kind of compensation, a sacrifice of my own.”

Scott is on the verge of groaning, and not for the happier reasons of earlier on in the evening. “Stiles, please don’t tell me you sold your soul just to give me a snowball fight.”

“Aww, you still think I have a soul,” Stiles says, nudging Scott in the ribs. He smiles at Scott, his eyes warm and fond. “I had to sacrifice my time, Scotty. Effort. Just this once, it was enough. You should know you deserve a lot more.”

“I don’t know what to say to that.”

It isn’t a lie. He really doesn’t know how to respond. Realizing that the depth of Stiles’ emotions matches his _is_ more than he ever could have hoped for. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” Stiles says, gently, like it’s an out. Like he thinks Scott means he doesn’t return the sentiment.

“I know I don’t have to, but I want to. I want to find the words to tell you how much I love you. I want to be able to express my gratitude for everything you’ve done. I want you to know that you’ve saved my life in thousands of ways, big and small. But it’s late, and I’m sleepy, and mostly I just wanna hold you tight and never let go.”

Stiles wriggles closer, moving like an eel, until he’s pressed all along Scott’s side. He strokes his fingers against Scott’s jaw and presses a kiss there, then shifts until his back’s against Scott’s torso. “Hold away,” he mumbles. 

So Scott does. He holds Stiles close and falls asleep feeling content, safe and secure, for the first time in a long time.


End file.
